New York, I Love You but You're Bringing Me Down
by Kelly1
Summary: All Bobby wanted was ice cream. Grocery shopping at three a.m. is apparently a popular mutant pastime. Angsty Bobby/John citrusy foeyay. Set after/mild spoilers for season 1.


_Title_: **New York, I Love You (but you're bringing me down)**

_Summary:_ All Bobby wanted was ice cream. It's amazing who else you meet in the supermarket at three a.m. Angsty Bobby/John citrusy foeyay.  
_Rating:_ M - language and a decidedly lime scene (not lemon.) Not PWP...I actually mathed it out, approx. 88% Plot, 12% non-explicit smut.  
_Pairing:_ Bobby/John (Iceman/Pyro)  
_Warnings: _ Slash. Non-explicit sexual acts.  
_Disclaimer:_ Marvel owns. I can only dream of growing a sweet moustache like Stan Lee.

A/N: Going under the movie-verse assumption again that Pyro used to be an X-Man pre-WatXM.

______ - indicates P.O.V. change.

Bobby Drake's older, lankier, bearded reflection gawked open-mouthed at him, translucently laid across the tubs of double churned chocolate swirl. It was three a.m. and he was standing in the frozen foods section of the twenty-four hour supermarket closest to the mansion. Rocky Road was currently essential to his survival, and worth the half hour drive into the city. He stood transfixed, groggily unable to process or fully comprehend what he was seeing. Freezer-Door-Bobby made a half-hearted noise somewhere between indignation and choking. He snuck a peripheral glance, confirming that there was indeed another blonde man standing in the aisle next to him. Oh, the awkward. "Uh, the mint mocha chip is back that way."

It was as if he had pulled a grenade pin. The familiar figure coiled back on his heals instantly, all feral, quivering suspicion. Even beneath the oversized sweater, Bobby could see that he was painfully thin.

"What do you want, Drake?" That accent got him every time. Everything came rushing back, sharp and clawing.

It had been almost two years since John Allerdyce had left the mansion, left Bobby's bed in the middle of the night without so much as a note or a goodbye. It had nearly killed him: the loss, the longing, the uncertainty. Seeing him here, now, seemed surreal, so pallid and mundane amongst the bright primary shades of the aisle signs and harsh florescent bulbs.

"Well, to be honest, I was hoping for either some Rocky Road or an epic fight to the death with my only ex turned mortal enemy. Luckily, now I don't have to choose."

John's hand pushed itself deep within his front jean pocket. Bobby knew he should be on guard, that John was grasping the lighter which permanently resided there, but he just couldn't muster the effort. John's eyes held a heartbreaking mix of defiance and defeat.

Back in his prime, when they were both X-Men, John consistently trampled Bobby in training. This was not because there weren't evenly matched. It was just that Bobby always stopped. That was the difference between them. Bobby couldn't bring himself to push; he was always too afraid of freezing John, of accidentally killing him. Pyro never held back. He would burn and burn and burn until Bobby conceded. Bobby always relented first. John's focus and intensity had been terrifying at times. Terrifying, but dependable-defining John the same way smarm and laxity defined Bobby. To see that look of loss and doubt in his former teammate's face was more devastating to him than he cared to admit. What had happened to him?

"Pff, you were always terrible at hero banter, Bobby Fett." The once comfortable nickname stung.

John uncoiled his posture, leaning now against the glass door and closing his eyes. Bobby had forgotten the soft curve of his eyelashes, impossibly long and the colour of wheat. The shadows were heavy and permanent beneath them, dark with a lifetime of sleep debt he would never repay. John was a chronic insomniac. Bobby had fallen asleep more times than he could count to John scratching away in his notebook well into the night.

"Hero banter is almost always terrible. Everyone ends up liking the villains anyways. They get the best lines."

"Ah yes, the witty anti-heroes, balancing on the edge of glamour and certifiable insanity. Now you're just using trite conventions. Why don't we throw in some veiled biblical references while we're at it?" For as long as Bobby had known him, John had been an avid fan of speculative fiction. He was obviously still writing. It was nice to know some things hadn't changed. But a lot had. Two years had made John harder, more desperate. The last Bobby had heard, he was working as security muscle in Genosha. So why was he in a Westchester grocery store in the middle of the night, emaciated and alone? Was he alone? Shit. He wished now that he'd thought to leave a note before he left. This could've been a set up. John spoke the words he was thinking, "So... uh... any of the other X-Men with you? If this is going to go pear-shaped I should at least get out my lighter....put up a fight before you finally take me down in a blaze of glory." He laughed mirthlessly. "Get it? Blaze? Sorry, terrible play on words."

Bobby should have lied. How hard would it have been to say that Cyclops was in Produce? Yet...the slumped spine, the bowed head, the gaunt face, and his eyes, his eyes... he just couldn't do it. "Hey, are you hungry, man?"

John rolled those pretty blue eyes at him and Bobby immediately regretted his question. "Nah, I just like to wander around the shops nicking food for kicks."

"You're...stealing food?"

"Fish gotta swim, and a guy's gotta eat. God, you're such a boy scout, Drake." He jammed his other hand into his pocket, affecting a standoffish slouch that Bobby knew was meant to reflect indifference. The naked hunger on his face was unmistakable. "You act like this is the worst thing you've ever seen me do."

He had a point. Shoplifting wasn't that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. John had killed people. That should have scared Bobby more than it did. "There's a diner around the corner that's open all night. Apparently, the pie is phenomenal. I'm buying."

"Fuck yeah you're buying with that institute allowance. It's been ages since I've eaten on Xavier's dime."

_____

It had been ages since he'd eaten.

That was why he was doing this, accepting charity from the heroically sanctimonious Bobby Drake, giving the boy something else to pat himself on the back for. He always needed to save John. It got tiresome. He'd read stories about people going mad with hunger, murdering and eating their friends to sate their basal needs in situations of extreme duress. This was just his animal nature getting the better of him.

John lit a cigarette as they crossed the parking lot, orange light and deep shadows throwing Bobby into sharp relief. The corners of his mouth turned down disapprovingly. Mr. All-American was disappointed in him, as always. At least he kept his mouth shut. It was funny how they fell back into comfortable patterns, same old Bobby. Except that he wasn't, not really. Two years had turned the gawky teen from his memories into a man. It wasn't just the muscles, though those were all too evident beneath the tight jeans, it was how he carried himself now.

The late autumn wind found its way through his thin sweater and John quickened his pace. He had two inches on Drake, mostly in his legs, and Bobby had to jog to keep up. He was more jealous than he would ever admit of the sheepskin and wool bomber Bobby wore, emblazoned with the familiar red X, bundled against elements which barely affected him. He'd owned one of those once. "Jesus, where did you park--back at the mansion?"

The self-conscious grin hadn't changed. "I...uh...kind of took Scott's new baby out for a ride. Audi R8. I'd be a dead man if someone opened their door into it." Bobby pointed to the sleek, gleaming automobile. No backseat. There went John's plans for warming up.

He bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet. "Unlock the doors."

"You can't smoke in the car."

"Fuck. Fine. I'll finish it out here then." The weather was making him whiny.

John leaned his back against the side of the vehicle, heard but did not see Bobby walk around and climb into the driver's seat. He fiddled with his lighter, trying to kindle a flame to counteract the cold which seeped into his bones. The wind was uncooperative. Bobby turned the engine smoothly. Violent coughs complemented his shivering, pulling the smoke too fast into his lungs in his haste to finish. The corner of the passenger door was opened firmly into his shoulder blade. "Get in."

Another act of benevolence from St. Robert the doormat. That was a good line; he'd have to remember to write it down when he got home. John sunk into the bucket seat, cranking the heater and cracking the window slightly. That was just what he needed: more stories about a blonde protagonist with smouldering blue eyes and an unflappable sense of grating youthful optimism. He didn't have enough of those. Bobby threw his gloves into John's lap and shifted the car into first. John finished his cigarette and pulled the soft black leather over his fingers. He squirmed in the seat, digging into his pocket, watching Bobby's knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. He was tensing in case John tried something, an ingrained instinct that had been drilled into their heads at the institute. John had it too, that edge, wound so tight that he could never relax. It was a hell of a way to live. "Gum?" Gum was his saviour; it dulled his appetite.

The grip on the wheel loosened slightly. "Sure." Bobby took the proffered pack, popping the small red rectangle over the crest of his bottom lip. John had forgotten those lips, always rougher and stronger in practice than they appeared to be. The air in the car smelled of equal parts tobacco and cinnamon. They spent the rest of the short ride to the diner in silence.

John stood too quickly as he exited the vehicle, blood rushing from his head, the familiar cloudy ringing in his ears. He really shouldn't have gone so long between meals. John had fainted only once, woken up on the floor of his bathroom with a split lip, before he had learned to recognize the warning signs. He dropped to his knees and waited for it to pass.

"Are you okay?"

"Yup, fine, just dropped my lighter under the car." Drake, bless his gullible little soul, knelt down to help him look. When the wave of dizziness had subsided, John managed a fairly convincing retrieval of the lighter from the shadow cast by the rear tire. He stood more carefully.

Bobby, a product of middle-class suburbia and competent parenting, held open the diner door for him, polite to a fault. They slid into the nearest booth, the ancient vinyl cracking and taped in places, ordering two burgers from the overly made-up waitress. There was a time they would've sat on the same side, even when it was just the two of them, legs touching comfortably, hands languidly tracing over the tops of each other's thighs under the table, but that was almost too long ago to remember now. They sipped their Cokes. John carefully inspected the slowly rising bubbles until the lack of conversation became too much to bear.

"How are things at the Institute?" John didn't really care, but it was something to talk about, something to make Bobby stop looking at him with undeniable pity.

"Well, you heard about the Prof, right?"

"Yeah. Only what... nineteen more years until he wakes up? I'm sure he'll be refreshed."

"Not funny."

John reached across the table and gave Bobby a playful tap on his forearm with the back of his palm, flashing his most devastating smirk. "A little funny?"

Bobby relented, his face cracking into a smile that reached his eyes, "Okay, a little funny." He shrugged. "Other than that, not a whole lot, I guess. We're just kind of plugging along. Things are better with Genosha at least. The Scarlet Witch is a bit more reasonable to work with than Magneto." His face lit up; he was always one for gossip. "She and Kurt almost definitely have a thing going on that they're trying to hide from us."

"I thought he kidnapped her. That would turn me off, I think." The day Wanda had gone missing wasn't exactly one of his fonder memories.

"No, it was some...space... guy? Where were you? I thought that would've been all over Genosha. Aren't you working there?"

The food serendipitously arrived, allowing John to avoid the question with a mouth full of cow. It had been months since he had tasted real meat, living almost exclusively off of beef flavoured Cup-O-Ramen. He was torn--part of him wanted to savour each bite, and the rest wanted to cram as much into his stomach as fast as was humanly possible. The latter won.

He had eaten his meal before Bobby had even worked through half a burger. John squeezed a mountain of ketchup onto his plate, his only two guilty American pleasures right there at the same table, plopping a handful of Bobby's chips down next to it. To his credit, Bobby only looked vaguely annoyed. "I was working in Genosha. Now I work for myself." He grinned wryly. "I wouldn't recommend it, Bobby-cakes. The pay's shit, the boss is incompetent, and the employee's a real slacker."

"Why'd you leave?"

John tried to ignore the weight in that question, the second meaning hiding just beneath the surface. "The Bossman and I had different ideas about what I could bring to the organization. I figured I'd be a good fit for guarding the prisons, but Magneto apparently thought I'd be better suited to being held in them."

"What? No!"

John realized how much he missed Bobby's enthusiasm, smiling in spite of himself. "Yeah, happened during the whole daughter dearest kidnapping fiasco. I thought it was because I used to be with you guys--that maybe he assumed I helped Kurt pull it off or something. Fuck, why did he lock me up then?"

It had taken John's literal imprisonment, not by the MRD but by his own kind, for him to realize what a barred cell his life had become. Except for the walls, he had been freer there than he ever had been working under Magneto or training with Xavier. He'd had time to write again. He'd slept through the night. When Wanda had released all but the lawfully convicted prisoners, John hadn't wanted to go. She'd offered him amnesty from his work with Magneto, a place within her new regime, another kind of prison to lock himself into. He'd passed. He was no longer allowed within the borders of the island nation.

"So, what are you doing now?"

"Writing. Freelance stuff. It's going fairly well. I've had four pieces published." That was three months ago, when things were going not well but okay and he actually assumed he might be able to make it. The money had run out. Nothing he'd written recently was being picked up. They'd shut off the power in his shithole apartment two weeks ago. There was no way he was going to make next month's rent, even now that he was supplementing his entire food budget through common thievery. He tried not to steal more than was absolutely necessary. After Genosha, he had vowed that he was going to live as far under the radar as he could manage.

John wasn't going to get caught up in sides again just because of a little money trouble. He had his freedom now, and nothing would ever, ever make him give that up. He'd found his new motto etched faintly into the wall of his holding cell: "It's better to die on your feet than live on your knees." He wouldn't tell that to Drake, he'd find it morbid instead of empowering. Seeing him in the grocery store had dredged up a lot of that old hate for his former life. It was surprising how easily he'd defaulted into his defensive posturing, how confusing and wrong it had felt at the same time. It was never about Iceman specifically though, just everything he believed in.

Bobby looked sceptical, articulating his point with the kosher dill. "Is this really the best place for that? Wouldn't you do better in New York City or something?"

"I'm doing fine. Rent's cheaper here, anyway." It was stupid, but more than Australia, more than Genosha, this little pocket of New York State felt like home. Face to face with it, John knew that this probably had more to do with the person sitting across from him than geographic location. He couldn't say he hadn't hoped he might casually run into Bobby like this someday.

"Yeah, I guess." Bobby chewed the last bite of his burger contemplatively. "'Scuse me, I've got to go to the bathroom."

Robert Drake would always be the type of man to excuse himself from a table to use the toilet, and John Allerdyce would always be the type of man to follow him in there.

Bobby's eyes widened almost comically when John pushed open the door, his hand still on his partially unzipped fly. John bit back a laugh at his expression. Bobby was always a bit too self-conscious about the whole thing. John was the first man Bobby had ever been with, probably the only one, and if he so much as chuckled he would spoil it completely.

Bobby stiffened slightly as John curled his arms around him from behind; pressing his lips softly down the nape of his neck. The fine blond hair curled under in tiny wisps there, tickling John's nose. Bobby half-whimpered, half-moaned. John struggled to focus, the noise driving his blood hot and thick and downwards.

Bobby turned, pressing his mouth so hard onto John's it seemed as if his intent was to bruise. Long fingers tangled in his hair with a fervour that bordered on violence. Things had changed. John had appreciated Bobby at the time, what he had lacked in skill he always made up for in enthusiasm, but this was...this was what John envisioned more often than not during those private moments right before he fell asleep. Bobby pushed him backwards into the handicapped stall, one hand firmly on the small of John's back, the other working the button on his jeans.

John was not used to this shift in power, and he wasn't sure he liked it in real life. Bobby had never been physically stronger than him back at the institute, nor had he had the wherewithal to take the lead before. A firm hand ground against the front of his boxers. Yes. Fuck. He liked it in real life. "God, I missed you." His voice was hoarse and breathy.

It was if John had flipped a switch--everything stopped, the hand withdrew. The bashful, self-doubting partner Bobby had always been stood before him. "Yeah?" John controlled everything again.

He took the opportunity to close and lock the stall door. "Yeah."

John had him against the wall in a second, pressing into his hips, pushing his shirt up and pants down, lips tracing his collarbone and neck and jaw and chest. Bobby's eyes were closed and he moaned once more, his arms sliding under John's sweater and wrapping around his waist. John's spine went noticeably rigid.

"What's wrong?" A throaty gasp.

"Nothing. Forgot." John smirked at him. "Cold hands."

______

Warm hands. Warm, impossibly skilled hands. Yes. He fumbled with John, losing the necessary rhythm and concentration. Oh. His knees were going to give way. Oh. Bobby steadied himself on John's shoulders. The pressure was unbearable. Yes. Oh. Oh. Yes.

Yes.

Bobby shuttered as he finished, almost falling forward in the release. John balanced him with hands pushed into his pelvic bone. "Easy, tiger."

Bobby slumped down against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. John impassively completed what Bobby had started, making good use of the toilet paper in the stall. He pulled up his pants and sat next to him, their long limbs tangling in the cramped space. He grinned at Bobby. Shirtless, Bobby could count John's ribs. It didn't have to be like this. "Come back to the mansion with me."

John didn't even pause. "Nah, tried it once, Bobb-o. We both know how that ended. I'm not cut out for that hero shit like you."

"Honestly," Bobby pulled his shirt over his head, hiding his face before he continued, "sometimes I don't know if I am either. I mostly... I just want to do this."

He avoided looking at John, but he could hear the smirk in his voice. "I think the staff might kick us out after awhile."

Bobby punched him in the arm without malice. "I meant no teams, you know? Just this. Just you and me."

"Just you and me? I could conceivably live with that. I'm pro both your bathroom hand job and free dinner agendas. Though I'm beginning to think you lured me here with the promise of phenomenal pie just to have your way with me." John stood, pulling his sweater back on and unlocking the door.

"Right, the pie. Order some when you get back to the table. I, uh, still have to piss."

"Will do. Then I'm going to nick your coat and go out for a cig."

"Alright." John's scent lingered in the stall, tobacco and cinnamon and cheap musky deodorant. Bobby sighed happily to himself.

The keys sitting on the table should have been his first hint. Fifteen minutes passed. When he saw the waitress carrying the single slice of cherry pie to the table, Bobby knew for certain. He ran what John said over in his mind. He was big on semantics. "I'm going to nick your coat (and not return it.)" "Go out for a cig (and not come back.)" "Just you and me? I could conceivably live with that (but I won't.)"

She set down the pie in front of him. "Your friend told me to tell you that he had to go but thanks for the meal. Can I get you anything else, kiddo?" He speared a cherry with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Do you have any Rocky Road?"


End file.
